


Draft of Living Death

by Maloreiy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Can't Have Too Many Warnings!, Despair, Emotional Wrecking Ball, F/M, Haunting, Heartwrenching Sadness, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, S&R:CRW, Soul-Crushing, Tissue Warning, Tragedy, marriage law
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 01:35:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10709376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maloreiy/pseuds/Maloreiy
Summary: The Malfoy family is not pleased with the announcement of a Marriage Law, but they are determined to get the best out of it, of course. And the best is clearly Hermione Granger. Hermione, however, would rather die.Overall Winner of the 'Something Worth Fighting For' competition hosted by Quills & Parchment, along with winner of Best Angst, Best Dark, Judges’ Favorite, and Fan Favorite. Also, Runner-Up in the Pass the Tissues (Best Hurt/Comfort) category of the Spring 2017 Dramione Fanfiction Forum Awards.





	Draft of Living Death

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SomethingWorthFightingFor](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SomethingWorthFightingFor) collection. 



> Disclaimer: All canon character, plots, and situations from the Harry Potter series belong to JK Rowling. I am not profiting from this work.
> 
>  **Prompt:** "Youth cannot know how age thinks and feels, but old men are guilty if they forget what it was to be young..."--Albus Dumbledore, from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (book) by JK Rowling.
> 
>  
> 
> _Please be advised that all the tags are the result of suggestions made by commenters after reading the story. Read at your own risk._

Draco glowered, looking around the room with disdain. The opulent ballroom at the Ministry was festively decorated with what someone had assumed was trappings of romance. There were strings of big blowsy flowers draped around newly erected, useless, Corinthian columns. Lovely music was gently floating on the air. And everywhere he looked was gauzy white fabric that was no doubt supposed to inspire thoughts of wedded bliss.

The effect might have been charming, but from the looks on everyone’s faces, no one was fooled into forgetting the deplorable reason they were all gathered together.

Lucius stood beside him and sniffed haughtily at the low quality wine in his glass. “Disgraceful.” It was unclear whether he was addressing the wine, or the room in general, but Draco certainly agreed with the sentiment either way.

“This Law is a travesty,” Draco grumbled, just loud enough to cause the Muggle-born that was walking past to glance at him awkwardly and hurry along. “And this ball is a ridiculous waste of money and energy. Not to mention a waste of my time.”

“Indeed.” With an expression of distaste, Lucius set his barely-touched goblet on the tray of a passing server. “Nevertheless, as we’ve already tried and failed to get the law overturned, and as the _Ministry,_ ” and Lucius’ tone on those words gave his very clear opinion on that subject, “has required all eligible wizards and witches to attend tonight, we would best be served by making the most use of this time. Every witch will be here, so use this opportunity to decide which witch we will be using our galleons to pursue first.”

The reminder of how the entirety of his marriage prospects had been limited to this single, overly-decorated room—and not even every witch in the room, only those wearing the purple ribbon that indicated they were Muggle-born, or those wearing the orange ribbon indicating they were half-bloods—caused him to sneer. He didn’t even bother commenting on the fact that all the Purebloods were wearing a ribbon of such a garishly bright shade of pink as to make him actually long for a Weasley to show up just so he could enjoy the horror of the contrast with their awful red hair.

As if on cue, a Weasley did indeed enter his field of vision. Unfortunately, it was the one that had barely any hair and he was wearing a white ribbon, like Lucius was, indicating he was here as the parent of one of the witches or wizards that was required to marry under the new Marriage Law.

Strange, he’d thought all of the Weasleys had finally married off. Harry Potter had married Ginny Weasley straightaway, of course, and one by one the other Weasleys had paired off. So who could Arthur possibly be escorting?

The answer came when the crowds in front of him cleared a bit, and he saw Arthur hand one of the two glasses of wine in his hands to a rather subdued looking Hermione Granger. Not content to simply wear the required purple ribbon, Granger was wearing a satin sheath of the same purple, the ribbon on her shoulder appearing more like an artful embellishment. He wondered if she’d planned it. She wasn’t even the least bit ashamed of her heritage. She was the most Muggle Muggle-born of all the Muggle-borns.

He hated to admit it, but she’d cleaned up quite nicely. Whoever had chosen her dress had made the correct choice for her. It hugged her form in all the right places and was uncompromisingly proud despite the forced circumstances. Her head, heaped up with curls that cascaded gently to frame her face, was held high, even though her eyes looked forlorn .

Part of him wanted to admire her grace, and that part of him made him overwhelmingly irritated. He didn’t want to admire anything about her. She was a Muggle-born, not to mention one of the Golden Trio that had made his life in school and during the war so difficult. He chose not to reflect on the fact that she, and her testimony, was also one of the reasons he was free to be a part of this Marriage Law and not wasting away in Azkaban. That was just another thought to irritate him. She was just a lowly witch with no wizarding family, making it so she had to get her friend’s father to stand for her, and the fact that society could feel that he owed her a debt made him irritated. The fact that there was a tiny part inside of him that did, in fact, feel that he owed her a debt made him terribly angry. And the anger made him cruel.

He found himself having drifted over to her before he’d even realized it. “Enjoying the party, Granger? You must be thrilled. An opportunity to marry above your station and destroy a perfectly good bloodline surely doesn’t come your way every day.”

“Malfoy,” she greeted, with a subtle bite to her tone that cast doubt on to whether the word was actually a greeting or a warning. “Shouldn’t you be out buying a bride?”

He narrowed his eyes at her words, which hit uncomfortably close to what his father had just said moments ago. When his father had said it though, it hadn’t caused him this surge of blinding fury. What right did she have to imply his money was his only worthy quality? “Any witch would be delighted to marry into the House of Malfoy,” he sneered at her. “I could choose _anyone_ right now, which is more than could be said for _you_. With every pathetic Weasley already married off, you’ll be lucky if any Pureblood looks at you twice, let alone agrees to sully their heritage with your dir—”

“Mr Malfoy!” Arthur Weasley barked warningly. His eyes were cold as he faced the younger man. “It would be best for _everyone_ if you didn’t finish that sentence.”

Draco didn’t know what it was about this woman that infuriated him so much. She always had. She just went around flaunting her magic—as if she had as much right to it as those born of proper magical parents—refusing to acknowledge her betters, and it made him crazy. He reined in his temper, just as Lucius sauntered over, having procured a glass of much higher quality wine.

“Now, now, Arthur,” Lucius drawled with a false laziness, “surely this isn’t the place to be tossing threats around. We’re all here for the same reasons, after all. Draco may be a bit uncouth with his words, but he’s only speaking the truth. I’m sure there’s no offense meant.”

For the first time, Hermione’s eyes sparked with that fire Draco remembered from school. “Yes, Mr Malfoy, we are all here for the same reasons. We’re here because your half-blood lord waged a war that decimated the wizarding population and now this generation—including your son—must be sacrificed to make up for your foolish mistakes.”

Lucius’ hand tightened on the stem of his glass, and the look in his eyes made Draco suspect he hated the little Muggle-born witch almost as much as he did.

Before Lucius could respond, though, Hermione taunted, “Forgive me for speaking the truth. I’m sure there’s no offense meant.” She gave him a small smile.

Weasley put a warning hand on the young woman’s arm. “Hermione.” With a flinty look at both Malfoys, and no excuse offered—because he was a Weasley and had the manners of a peasant—he forcefully walked Hermione away. Draco was surprised that she didn’t even put up a fight; she just let him turn her away and direct her to a different corner to stand in.

“Filthy Mudblood,” Lucius muttered under his breath, watching the two as they walked away.

“She’s the most brilliant witch of the age they say,” Draco commented, eyeing her dwindling purple-clad form thoughtfully.

“A shameful waste of magic and talent,” Lucius said, turning around to take another look at the other prospects in the ballroom, the incident already dismissed from his mind. But his son’s next words brought his attention back.

“I want brilliant children.”

There was a moment of silence as Lucius registered this statement. “Draco, surely you must be joking!” he hissed, regarding the Muggle-born who was still in sight with an expression of disgust on his face. “She’s possibly the very worst choice of Lady Malfoy in the entire room, based on blood alone. And nearly that, based on everything else.”

“But based on _magic_ ,” Draco pointed out, impatiently. “If I’m required to have children, who’s the best choice to breed the next generation of Malfoys? If they are to have strong magic, power, influence in society—a society that does not value bloodline and breeding and where all the Pureblood lineages are no longer pure?” He let his father follow the line of his thinking.

“You will be frightfully unhappy, I think,” Lucius said, with a shudder, after a moment to reflect on his son’s reasoning. His words were a tacit admission of acceptance.

Draco didn’t respond. If Voldemort had won, Draco rather thought he would have been lucky to be only ‘frightfully unhappy.’ If he had to marry a Muggle-born, at least this plan had the added appeal of making Hermione Granger mad enough to spit nails. The image was almost enough to make him smile.

* * *

 

“Malfoy!” Arthur Weasley shouted, and it was unclear whether he was addressing the son or the father, as both had been on the verge of saying vile things. “You will keep a civil tongue in your head, or we will leave immediately.”

“Sit down, Arthur,” Kingsley Shacklebolt ordered. He waited until Arthur had resettled himself in the chair next to Hermione before he turned his glare to the Malfoy men. “I will not accept any comments about blood purity or references to Miss Granger’s magical heritage. If you insist on continuing with such off-handed insults, I will end these marriage negotiations immediately.”

Lucius returned Shacklebolt’s glare. “You can’t reject our suit, _Minister_. We were promised the Sacred Twenty-Eight would have first choice and our claim is first.”

“I can, however, reject _these_ negotiations,” Kingsley pointed out, “and open the way for the _next_ Sacred Twenty-Eight family to press their claim. Surely you didn’t think you were the only Pureblood family to petition for the hand of Hermione Granger.” At the look the two blond men exchanged, it was clear they had not considered there would be competition, an oversight that indicated their blood prejudice still ran strong. “I suggest, Mister Malfoy,” Kingsley addressed the younger man, “you try to gain the assent of your intended bride. She must choose someone, but it does not have to be you.”

Draco squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. He wasn’t sure there was anything he could say that would gain her acceptance of his suit. He had been counting on his family’s influence and power and their position to coerce her into the marriage.

He looked over at Granger and noticed that she wasn’t even looking at him. Her eyes were on the door, as if she were merely waiting to be removed from the room. Her expression, as it had been the entire time, was blank and empty, lacking even the animation she’d had that night at the Marriage Law ball, when she’d responded to his father’s cruelty. Today she had simply let the words pass over her, and left it to Arthur Weasley to object.

“Miss Granger,” Draco began, the formal words sticking in his throat, though they did succeed in getting her to look at him. “The Malfoy family seeks your hand in marriage. As a powerful and influential family, we are accustomed to having the very best of everything. Despite…certain feelings of others on the matter…we believe— _I_ believe—that you are uniquely suited to be the next Lady Malfoy in this unusual situation. There are no other choices that will fit our standards. In addition, we are prepared to offer you a variety of concessions in this marriage to ensure your contentment within the arrangement.”

The words were the first ones directed to Hermione, and everyone turned to see how she would react. The room was quiet for several moments. Then she tilted her head to one side in a questioning manner and said, “You use the word ‘we’ an awful lot. Would I be marrying you or your father?”

Draco frowned, and his father beside him grimaced. The girl was either unintelligent, which was impossible, given what Draco knew of her, or she was deliberately being obtuse just to irritate them.

“Granger.” Draco scowled. “You would be marrying _me_ , and only me. And I say ‘we’ a lot, because I’m representing a family dynasty.”

She considered that. “You wouldn’t even consider marrying me if it wasn’t for this Law.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement of fact.

Draco answered it, anyway. “Of course not, Granger. Neither of us would be here if it wasn’t for this Law.”

She took a few deep breaths, staring down at her hands. The silence stretched out so long it began to unnerve him. Where were the righteous indignation and the swotty mouth that he’d been expecting? This still, silent girl was a far cry from the Gryffindor he remembered.

“Hermione,” Weasley broke the silence, placing a fatherly hand on her arm. “You don’t have to consent to anything right now. You heard Kingsley, there are other options for you. We can see you placed in a family where you would be happy.”

She didn’t quite scoff at that. “Doubtful, Mr Weasley. Highly doubtful.” With a sigh she reached down into her bag and pulled out a sheet of parchment paper and a quill. “I would have some conditions.”

Both Malfoys relaxed infinitesimally, understanding that the negotiations had well and truly begun.

“Of course,” Lucius acknowledged, magnanimously. “As Draco said, we are prepared for a variety of conditions to be met upon your joining our family. Arrangements to care for… _Muggle_ family members, perhaps?” It was a wonder he didn’t choke on the term and the implications that he would be related, even if just by marriage, to Muggles.

Hermione dismissed his words with a wave of her hand. “I don’t have any family. Just the Weasleys, and Harry, and they certainly don’t need any provisions from you.”

Draco was surprised to hear that and found himself wondering what had happened to her Muggle parents. From the sad way that Weasley looked at her, he assumed it was something bad.

Carefully, Hermione set her wand down on the table and taking the sheet of parchment, she drew a line down the center.

Ah, a list. That was certainly in keeping with the Hermione Granger that he remembered.

Though he was reading it upside down, it looked like she labeled one side ‘The Malfoy Dynasty’ and the other side ‘Hermione Granger.’

“Tell me the things you want from this marriage—from me,” she commanded, her quill poised at the top of the paper.

When Draco didn’t answer right away, his father spoke. “We would expect from you appropriate conduct as befitting your station as Lady Malfoy, at all times. Though not a Pureblood,” he raised his hand to ward off Kingsley’s glare, “we would expect you to follow the manners and customs or our Pureblood society where applicable to you.”

Hermione wrote ‘Conduct befitting a Pureblood lady’ at the top of the column.

At that positive sign, Lucius continued, “Our most pressing concern is for the next generation of Malfoys. One of the reasons we selected you, is that you are one of the most brilliant witches of your generation.” He smiled at her in a way that suggested she should be appreciative of his compliment. “We insist on at least two children, as the Ministry has commanded, and we hope that they will inherit the intelligence and magical ability of both of their parents.”

There was a slight grimace on Hermione’s face that Draco could only assume was for the prospect of having to sleep with him, and he narrowed his eyes at that. She wrote ‘Two children of magical and intellectual ability’ on to the list.

The room remained silent as both Malfoys thought about what else they could add to their list. It would appear their demands were very small when summed up in this way.

“We would, of course, expect your obedience in all things,” Lucius added, slyly.

Hermione snorted at that. “Of course, you would. However, I cannot grant that to you unconditionally.” Still, she wrote, ‘Obedience where it does not conflict with other conditions’ on the list.

Draco had to prevent his mouth from falling open. Thinking of an obedient Hermione Granger boggled his mind, let alone one that obeyed _him_. It actually made him a little bit uncomfortable. It would be much easier to live with a Granger that didn’t object to every little thing that he did, but one that was simply obedient…somehow didn’t bear thinking about.

Her brown eyes turned to him, and he couldn’t help thinking that they still looked sad. He tried to ignore that thought. “And you, Draco?” she asked. “Would-be husband, what would you require of me?”

The thought of himself as her husband sent a tiny thrill down his spine. Her dark eyes direct on him made something stir deep inside that he couldn’t quite place. He wanted to say something, wanted to voice something about _possibilities_. But there were three other sets of eyes on him, one set in particular that was very like his own and was watching him heavy with expectation. The words just wouldn’t come.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want you to be miserable,” he finally blurted out.

He thought her eyes looked even sadder at that, but she did smile. “Yes, you did say something about ensuring my ‘contentment within the arrangement’.” She wrote ‘Contentment’ on the list.

Then she just stared at the list, as if memorizing her future.

“And you, Miss Granger?” asked Lucius, interrupting her mediation. “What are your requirements of us?”

She looked at him solemnly. “Only that you allow me to have whatever you do not require of me.”

Draco’s eyes darted up to hers, his Slytherin instincts suddenly on alert, but there was nothing in her expression to make anyone suspicious.

“You’ll have to explain, I’m afraid,” Lucius said.

Holding up the parchment, Hermione pointed to the blank side of the list with her name on it. “I will make a list of things that will be for myself only. If you don’t claim a need for them, then these items I get to keep. They will belong only to me.” She set the paper back down onto the table. “For example,” and she wrote the words as she spoke them, “‘my clever wit.’”

The men all laughed as if she’d made a joke, all except Draco. Hermione was also not laughing.

“I suppose we can have no objection to Hermione keeping her clever wit to herself, now can we?” Lucius chuckled.

One by one, Hermione began writing her list. As if in a solemn ritual, she recited the words as she carefully penned them, and the list was much longer than theirs. Joy. Bravery. Loyalty. Humor. Compassion. Anger. Sympathy.

When she added ‘Affection’ and ‘Love’ to the list, Draco couldn’t contain the pressure that he felt building in his chest. There was something terribly wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. “I will not share you, Granger! You will not be free to give your affection or your love elsewhere!”

She stopped writing and looked up at him, contemplating the incensed look on his face, and then she thoughtfully wrote, ‘Fidelity’ on the list under the Malfoys’ side. “Does that assuage your concern?” she asked.

Lucius nodded, and Draco forced himself to settle back into his chair while she continued writing. The easy way she conceded to his demand did nothing but heighten his concern, but he found he still could not express himself.

When she finally set the quill down, the list had dozens of items on her side in impeccably small writing. On the other side, just five.

Just those five things to define his marriage, and Draco found his heart beating much too hard. He thought he wanted something more, but Draco consoled himself that he would speak with her privately later. He would find out what she meant by her list.

“Is that truly all you wish, Miss Granger?” the senior Malfoy asked, his gaze slightly amused at the simplicity of her request. “Privacy of thought and emotion?”

He summed it up so simply, but Draco was convinced it could not be simple. They were missing something. Hermione would not have made such a show of making a list, of requesting this boon of her marriage, if it did not have some higher significance.

“That is all,” she confirmed. “I retain control over all of those things that are for myself. I belong only to me, and I will never begrudge you or your family the things on your side of the list.”

Warning bells screamed in Draco’s head. She could do her best to live by her word, but she couldn’t promise to fulfill each item perfectly without ever having any resentment. It was impossible.

Hermione stood up, and reached her hand out to Lucius as if to shake it. “I agree to marry Draco Malfoy under the conditions we have agreed upon.”

“Hermione,” Arthur protested. “Are you sure you don’t want to think about it further? There’s no need to come to such a brash decision.”

But Lucius had already taken Hermione’s hand and he shaking it, he said, “Agreed.”

Then she turned her gaze to Draco and held out her hand again. “Do you agree, Draco? Do you agree on these terms?”

He stood up and looked at her hand, held out in the empty air, waiting for his, and everything inside of him told him not to take the deal. He knew if he told his father of his doubts, he would look like a fool. He was the one who had insisted on marrying Hermione Granger in the first place. She was strangely amenable, despite this one odd request. So he shook her hand, wondering at the slim, cool feeling of her skin against his. She was bizarrely calm. “Agreed, Granger.”

“I wish the binding ritual to happen now,” she added. “The marriage ceremony can wait, to be handled however you see fit. But I want the binding.”

The binding was the actual act of union. From the moment it was performed, a wizard and witch were essentially husband and wife, though Wizarding society generally required a traditional marriage ceremony to recognize the marriage.

It wasn’t terribly unusual, and was sometimes performed as part of a betrothal ceremony. Lucius saw no reason to object, and though Weasley objected quite strenuously, Shacklebolt did not need his consent provided the two marrying parties had agreed.

The two young people found themselves standing before the Minister of Magic, Hermione clutching her parchment list in her hands. She turned to hug Mr Weasley, a sheen of tears in her eyes. “Tell Harry I’m sorry,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Draco only heard it as she was standing next to him.

“I can bring him in from outside if you like,” Arthur said, and made as if to go retrieve her best friend, but Hermione shook her head.

The binding was a simple spell performed on their entwined hands. A marriage ceremony might end with a kiss, but there was no show of affection necessary for the binding, and Hermione simply turned from Draco when it was finished.

She sat back at the table and picking up her quill, she wrote one last item on the list and looked it over carefully once more. Then with her wand, she tapped it and wordlessly cast a spell that caused it to glow brightly and hover into the air. With trembling hands, she reached up for it, and without pause she ripped it right down the middle, along that line that was the first thing she’d drawn.

A terrible screaming sound suddenly filled the air. The two halves of the paper fluttered in the sudden burst of energy that lit up the room and caused everyone to jump up with loud shouts.

The screaming abruptly terminated as Hermione gasped, her back arching off of the chair, her eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Her arms were hanging behind her at an unnatural angle, and her wand fell from her fingertips. Draco leapt for her, not knowing what was happening, but feeling dread and fear clawing at his belly. Her face was a rictus of pain, but only for an instant.

Then the light was gone, and Draco caught her as she dropped back into the chair, panting for breath. The two halves of the parchment list slowly wended their way to the floor. Draco could see that one half was shrinking and withering like it was being burned. He cast a frantic stasis spell on it, not knowing why it was so urgent, but having an irrational need to save it from deteriorating any further.

“What the hell is going on?” Lucius snapped. His wand was out and trained on everyone in the room simultaneously as if expecting a threat to come from any direction. But no one was paying attention to him because their gazes were trained on the brown-haired Muggle-born that was now sitting quietly in the chair.

“Hermione?” Arthur Weasley knelt next to her, concern in his face, and her eyes turn to look at him.

“Yes,” she answered. If her face was expressionless before, it was positively vacant now.

“Hermione what just happened? What did you do?”

She didn’t answer, just blinked several times with that same empty look on her face.

Draco had grabbed both pieces of paper. Where the piece of parchment that listed the requirements of the Malfoys was still whole with the inky blank lines glowing with an eerie light, the other piece with the list of things Hermione Granger was keeping for herself, was crumpled and disfigured. The lines had thinned to a spiderweb-like scrawl, and everything was a ghostly shade of grey.

The door burst open as Harry Potter came charging in, his wand still lit up from the spells he’d performed to break into the Minister of Magic’s office. “I heard Hermione screaming!”

His wand was turned on the Malfoys, but he quickly saw Hermione unhurt in the chair, with Draco beside her and Arthur kneeling next to her. “Hermione, are you all right?”

Not a single man in the room had the words to explain what had just happened, and the shock etched on their faces had Harry frantically demanding answers.

In a halting voice, Arthur explained the events, and what he thought had happened, while Hermione continued to be unmoving and unresponsive. He showed Harry the two lists, and Harry’s face took on a look of horrified comprehension.

“You were supposed to be watching out for her, Arthur!” Harry cried, hauling Hermione up and into his arms. She went without resistance.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Arthur said, repeatedly, his face a mask of sorrow. “I’m truly sorry. I had no idea. We’ll find a way to undo it.”

“You were supposed to be watching her!” Harry repeated, his wand pointed at the group as he maneuvered Hermione backwards to the door, as if he was going to take her away. “Especially since the last time! You should have been paying closer attention!” Tears blinded his eyes. In a quieter voice, he spoke to the witch in his arms. “Hermione, love, I’m going to take you to St. Mungo’s. It’s okay, you don’t have to marry him if you don’t want to. I’ll make sure of it.”

As he disappeared around the corner, no one bothered to mention to explain to him that she was already married. The binding was complete.

Draco looked down at the parchment in his hands. He had the remnants of two lists, and he realized with a growing horror that together—and _separately—_ they represented the entirety of his new bride.

* * *

 

**_Fifteen Years Later_ **

King’s Cross station was filled with restless parents who had arrived early to pick up their children. Draco knew that the Potters and the Weasleys had seen him, and even though their relations had gotten much friendlier over the years—out of necessity—he never felt comfortable being around them, particularly in family situations.

Hermione, of course, never came to King’s Cross. The story was that she was a bit reclusive, leery of her fame as a war-heroine, and tried to avoid the public eye. The children understood, as they’d spent their whole lives coping with their mother’s strange illness.

On the one hand, she was incredibly intelligent, able to recite useful information at the drop of a hat. She was also incredibly proficient at any task she was assigned to do, and she frequently did it without question when asked by a Malfoy. On the other hand, she had trouble carrying on casual conversation and often appeared uninterested in anything that was unrelated to her children.

Draco had had quite a time trying to figure out how to circumvent her obedience when the children were not old enough to realize that their mother would literally do anything for them and they had unknowingly been inclined to give outrageous commands.

He tried not to think of his wife waiting back at home, if waiting was indeed what she doing. She was sitting. And she would still be sitting when he returned home with the children, so maybe that did qualify as waiting.

Having the children had been quite a difficult situation. Not the actual pregnancies, of course. Hermione had uncomplainingly taken all of her potions, gone to all of her doctor’s appointments, ate precisely what she was told to eat, and followed all instructions perfectly to the letter.

No, the difficulty was in getting her pregnant. Draco had been appalled upon confirming that his wife was more of a stranger wearing a familiar face. He had never thought he would miss Granger’s caustic personality, but the woman with her hair and her body did not have her eyes. These eyes were gentle, but empty, and it turned his stomach. For months he couldn’t bear to consummate their marriage. He ran himself ragged trying to find the Counter-spell, spending galleons hiring every expert he could find in the field.

Each month had worn on him, and on Potter, who had worked equally as tirelessly to figure out what Hermione had done to herself. After the first couple of months, Potter had relented on letting Hermione stay at the manor. As Draco’s wife, that’s where she belonged, and when it was clear that she was in no danger from the Malfoys, it seemed only reasonable to get her adjusted to what would be her permanent living arrangements.

Lucius was no help. He didn’t see what all the fuss was about. As far as he was concerned, the Mudblood had finally learned her place, and he thought it was particularly fortuitous that the Malfoy family could have the benefit of her name and her reputation without her actual confrontational self.

He even offered to sire Draco’s heirs, if Draco continued to have problems consummating his marriage.

That had been the last straw, and Draco had kicked him out of his wing of the manor, warded the entire thing against his father—because he had no idea whether the ‘Fidelity’ item on the list meant faithfulness to her husband or to the Malfoy family—and he’d finally consummated his marriage.

She had been pliant and receptive the entire time, _content_ one even might say. And Draco had had to bite his lip to keep from giving her orders that would make her act like a more normal wife, a more normal woman.

And then he had cried afterwards. Great big, hot, rolling sobs because he had never felt quite so dirty, so useless, and so helpless in his entire life.

But nine months later, Scorpius was born. That event was the single most joyous day of his entire life. He’d cried again that day, the same great big, rolling sobs that had marked the day of Scorpius’ conception, and the famous Harry Potter had awkwardly put an arm around him and patted him on the back.

Those had been tears of relief though, and Harry couldn’t have known the fears that had haunted him for nine months. That baby Scorpius would be born some kind of a monster. That he would exit the womb with a look of placid contentment and empty eyes. The minute he’d started wailing—waving his pale little arms around, a shock of blonde hair on his head so fine it was see-through—just like a normal baby, Draco had been reduced to bawling. He’d cradled the little body close to his and he’d promised that no matter what else he did with his life, he would be a good father.

Callisto was born two years later. When Draco had announced that Hermione was pregnant again, Ginny and Harry had had very carefully blank expressions that were then quickly replaced with a forced cheerfulness and the requisite congratulations. But though they never offered any words of censure, they _knew_.

Not everything, of course. They couldn’t know that Draco had been so desperate, and so despairing, and so damn lonely that he’d turned to the wife who shared his bed. She hadn’t refused, of course, having given her consent ages ago on a strip of parchment paper. He’d held her and he’d wished that for a moment, just a moment, she would be Granger again, and he’d whispered her name and for the barest second he thought he saw something flicker in her eyes. It was just a trick of the light, but it was enough for him to find the release he’d desperately needed. Afterwards there were no tears, just the self-loathing he’d learned to live with, and the aching longing that never went away.

On very rare occasions over the years, Draco had again availed himself of his wife’s body, but she had never gotten pregnant again. She’d produced the two highly intelligent and highly magical children that had been promised, and that was all. On the one hand Draco was relieved, as he wouldn’t again have to feel the shame of knowing that others knew that he had been unable to restrain himself.

But on the other hand he dearly loved his children and thought another child could only have been a blessing to the Malfoy family.

As this was Callisto’s first year at Hogwarts, it was also the first time Draco had ever been without the two of them for so long. He had missed them terribly, and so he was waiting anxiously at the platform to take them home and enjoy the few days of holiday that they had together.

When they came off the train, two heads of pale blonde hair, Draco felt his spirits lift immediately. Callisto was easy to pick out as she’d inherited her mother’s curls and general disregard for keeping her mane tamed, and Scorpius was the spitting image of his father, right down to the insufferable sneer and the haughty attitude.

Today was worse than usual as Scorpius seemed to be in a right snit. But even the prospect of Scorpius throwing a pubescent tantrum did not dampen Draco’s mood. He’d missed the purpose fatherhood gave him, the interaction with another human being. When his kids were gone, he tended to lock himself away, nearly as isolated as his wife.

It wasn’t long before Scorpius explained what was wrong. Draco had been listening to all of their little problems for years, and both of his children knew they had his attention whenever they spoke.

Once back at the manor, Draco set about helping him to unpack and he listened to Scorpius complain about a girl at school who was always getting him into trouble. Draco didn’t remark on it much, because he knew that childhood hijinks came part and parcel with the prestigious magical boarding school. If there were a genuine problem, no doubt the Headmistress would have alerted him to it. Merlin knew his own father had constantly been kept apprised of everything that had happened at Hogwarts, and he had no intention of putting that kind of pressure on Scorpius.

But when Scorpius said, “I hate her,” Draco’s instincts suddenly turned on.

“She thinks she knows everything.” Scorpius was stomping around his room scowling. “She thinks she’s so special because her Uncle is the famous Harry Potter, and because she’s got the highest grades in the school. She’s a swot, and she’s ugly, with her awful red hair.”

He could only be talking about Rose Weasley. She was in the same year as Scorpius and Albus, and Draco had known that Scorpius hadn’t had much of a liking for the girl. He didn’t really see why. She was a sweet girl, if a bit mischievous and over-dramatic, the epitome of a Gryffindor. Fortunately, she seemed to inherit the cleverness of her uncles, rather than her father’s barely-average comprehension skills.

Scorpius was still talking. “And I’m pretty sure Albus and I are going to make her sorry she ever tried to humiliate me in Potions.” He looked at his father and sneered, “I’m a _Malfoy_ and she’s just a stupid _Weasley_.”

Draco didn’t know why those words upset him so much. All of his emotions were clanging and a terrible feeling of dread washed over him. In his head he heard other insults, far worse than ‘stupid’ and ‘Weasley.’ In his mind’s eye, picture after picture flashed by of an angry girl with crazy hair and flashing eyes. And he felt the echo of that same contempt and haughtiness that he saw reflected on his son’s face.

“Stop!” he told Scorpius. “Stop, just stop.” He held his hands up as if to physically prevent him from talking but he couldn’t seem to find any more words. The heaviness in his chest was crushing him, squeezing out all of his air. The pictures in his mind were flying by faster and faster, and he heard screaming—the horrible screaming of a teenage girl under the Cruciatus Curse.

Confused, Scorpius took a step forward. “Father, are you okay?”

“Don’t ever,” Draco wheezed, and couldn’t gasp in enough air to finish. He tried again. “Don’t speak like that.”

It took Scorpius a moment to realize what he was saying before his father had gone mental. “Oh,” he said, “It’s just Weasley.” His face scrunched up again in a scowl. “She’s such a—”

“I said don’t speak like that!” Draco roared, yelling at his son for the first time in both their lives.

Truly shocked now, Scorpius stood stock-still, gaping at him.

“You have to apologize,” Draco said, frantically, his voice hoarse. “You have to tell her you don’t mean it. Don’t ever say those things, or do those things, or _not_ do those things, without apologizing afterwards. You have to tell her while you can. Maybe there’s still time—still time for her to forgive you. Maybe it won’t be…” his voice trailed off.

Scorpius was staring at him with big tears in his eyes. It was clear he didn’t know what was wrong, and Draco got himself together just enough for him to tell his son he was sorry, before rushing from the room.

He fled the children’s side of the wing as if being chased by demons, and came crashing into the room where Hermione was still sitting, quietly, reading her book.

He didn’t know why he came here. He knew she wasn’t going to be able to help, knew she couldn’t comfort him. Knew she couldn’t absolve him of his sins.

And seeing her there, so calm—reading, always reading—abruptly made him so mad he couldn’t see straight. All of his anger and frustration and fear came spewing out of him.

“This is all your fault, Granger! You were supposed to be here!” he raged. “You were the one that was supposed to teach them kindness, and goodness, and—and—and _love_.”

The words on her list scrolled through his mind, mocking him. _Affection_. _Joy_. _Laughter_. “You were supposed to take all of these broken pieces and patch them together and make a family! You were supposed to make the difference, you were going to make them better than me, better than my family. And instead you’re just—you’re just—”

But he couldn’t continue. As much as he wanted to blame her, he never could. She’d asked what he’d wanted, and he’d been too naive, too confused, and still with far too much pride, to have told her even the tiniest bit of what he knew now.

She was looking up at him, her expression blank and empty and he couldn’t bear the guilt that weighed on him. He fell to his knees at her feet, placed his head in her lap, and he begged her, as he did sometimes when he felt like he had nothing left. “Come back, Granger. Please, come back. Don’t leave me here like this.”

It had been years since he had done this. It was one of the few commands she never obeyed. He’d tried every way he could think of to gain her cooperation in her own recovery and it never worked.

“Please, Granger,” he cried, “please, just tell me how to fix this. Tell me what the answer is. I’ll do anything.”

A hand came down into his hair, a comforting touch. But it made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle, because he knew that it was a gesture he’d told her to do when one of the kids came crying to her, and so it brought him no comfort. He cried harder, his tears making her book soggy.

After several minutes, he finally gathered himself together, and he picked himself up off of the floor. A quick spell fixed her book, and Hermione returned to reading it.

A small, timid knock at the door came. Draco sighed to himself, and then opened the door. His daughter stood on the other side, her brown eyes wide in her face, and a gigantic book clutched in her arms.

Neither one spoke for a moment, and then Callisto asked in a voice that wavered, “Is it time to read to mummy now?” She hadn’t used the word ‘mummy’ in years, and Draco felt a pang of regret that his outbursts had managed to scare both of his children.

“Of course,” he said, his throat still raw from his crying. “She’d like that.”

When Callisto walked into the room, Hermione put her book away and looked at her, the illusion of intention and interest perfected after several years. Callisto climbed up onto the settee beside her and opened the book. “Did you want to pick a section to read, mum?”

Hermione shook her head. “No, darling, why don’t you pick today?” Sometimes Hermione picked Sadness, sometimes she picked Affection. She systematically, in a way that appeared random, chose from each of the sections, or sometimes declined to choose. The only section she never chose was ‘Love’ because Draco couldn’t bring himself to have her request to hear those stories.

“I pick Laughter,” Callisto said, and Draco felt a spurt of shame that maybe she’d picked it because there wasn’t enough laughter in this household. Merlin knew Hermione never laughed.

The story was about a girl who used Polyjuice Potion and accidentally turned herself into a cat. It was one of Callisto’s favorite stories, and it always made her laugh.

When Callisto laughed, Hermione smiled. When Callisto cried, Hermione gently touched her hair. This time, Hermione smiled, and looked at her daughter as if they shared a joke. One day, maybe, Callisto would recognize the difference, but today she was still young enough to believe the carefully constructed lies.

That book was one of the best things Draco had ever made. Originally, it had begun out of a notion that he would try to collect as many of Hermione’s memories as he could. Then, he would read them to her, trying to imprint her own memories back onto her empty personality. Hermione could recite every single one of the stories by heart.

Years Draco spent researching. He interviewed all of her friends, her teachers, even braving the Muggle world to speak to some who had known her as a young child. Her parents had died in the war, a complication of an Obliviation spell, so they were beyond reach. But he’d found pictures and diaries and neighbors to talk to. He’d painstakingly compiled the tiniest details of Hermione’s life—and then he’d created the book.

One section for every single item on the list: Tears, Excitement, Pride, Joy, Affection—each story was carefully placed, and together they made a colorful tapestry of the life of one incredibly clever, incredibly brave young woman. Dozens of sections, magically compiled and compressed into one gigantic book.

It was the only way his children would ever know their mother. At first they had thought it was just children’s stories. But then they would occasionally hear some of the stories from Uncle Harry, and they began to understand that it was the story of their mother, from the Before-Time, as they called it. It was the story of Hermione Granger, told in thousands of pieces.

The book was also one of the worst things Draco had ever made. Piece by piece, as he’d learned all the intimate details of who Hermione Granger was—of her passion and her unwavering stance for justice, of her loyalty and her resourcefulness—every piece was another nail in his proverbial coffin. He was halfway through the book and had been living through Laughter for months, just starting on Affection, when he realized he was hopelessly in love with a woman who no longer existed.

His heart was all torn and twisted up, and when he dreamed, it was of being back in Hogwarts and he couldn’t stop watching her as her hand waved in the air to answer the professor’s question; or he fixated on her mouth as her swotty voice lectured him on something he probably already knew.

The dreams and the memories made it ever more clear just how much was missing from Hermione Malfoy. He stopped reviewing Pensieve memories when he realized that he felt like he could live there, that he was becoming addicted to the sight of her dancing with the Weasleys, opening gifts at Christmas. More so, as painful as life was, it was just that much more unbearable to see, over and over again, what he could never have.

It’s why he couldn’t bear to be in the room when they read the section on Love. Even when Hermione chose Tears, and Draco had to listen to his daughter read through the stories of how her mother had tried to commit suicide twice after the war—the last time shortly before the Marriage Law was passed—it wasn’t as bad as when listening to those stories about how deeply and how thoroughly she had loved, and knowing he would never be in that section.

While Callisto read to Hermione, Draco heard a sound behind him, and he turned to see young Scorpius standing in the doorway uncertainly. Knowing his son was worried about his father’s mood, Draco nodded his head over to the couch, and suggested in a falsely bright tone, “Why don’t you keep the girls company, Scorp? Your sister’s reading to your mum.”

Scorpius nodded, but looked like he wanted to say something more. Draco just shook his head, not having the right words to discuss the things he wanted to say to Scorpius. Explaining his own complex history, and revealing his myriad of failings would have to wait for another time. Draco just couldn’t handle any more emotional upheavals today.

As Scorpius passed by to take his seat next to his mother, Draco reached out and affectionately squeezed his son’s shoulder. The boy was nearly as tall as he was, already. He felt Scorpius relax a tiny bit at the sign that his father wasn’t mad at him.

While the two kids read and laughed about the time the Mean Boy and his friends followed the girl through the snow, and were pelted with snowballs by an invisible boy, Draco sneaked off to his study. He needed a moment alone to think.

As he shut the door behind him, he walked over, as was his habit, to a cabinet that took up an entire wall. On it were scrolls of parchment, books meticulously labeled, and a display with glass doors that radiated light from inside. Two strips of parchment hung in the air, the original stasis-charm removed and replaced with something stronger and more lasting. One was a list with a measly five items, and it was from this strip that the glow was coming from. It was very bright with the words clearly printed on them in a handwriting that Draco was now extremely familiar with, having read every homework assignment she’d ever turned in.

It was the other strip he looked at, though. It was dark—the color of ash—and wispy, almost see-through. The carefully printed list of words and phrases was hard to make out, but Draco didn’t need to see them to read them; he had them all memorized.

He thought to himself a familiar thought, as he’d thought it almost every time he had stood there. Of all the things that he wanted, if he could have just one thing—just _one thing_ from that list—he would sell his soul for the very last thing she’d added onto it. The thing he had spent thousands upon thousands of galleons trying to find. The thing he had begged and pleaded and demanded that Hermione give him. But whether it was part of the magic, or just his bad luck, it—like her—remained forever out of his grasp.

In her very familiar writing, at the very bottom of the list, just where the paper curled up, Hermione had added one last thing that would be forever _hers_.

_‘The name of the spell.’_

* * *

 

**_Eight Years Later_ **

Draco went to find Scorpius, and was unsurprised to find him pacing just outside the doors of the church. He took the briefest of moments to allow the admiration for his oldest child to wash over him. At the age of 21, the same age his parents were when they married, Scorpius was taller than his father, though of the same slim build. His bright blond Malfoy hair glinted in the sunlight, tousled already no doubt from hands nervously sliding through it. His formal robes were pristine—black and silver and quietly luxurious—and swirled around his feet as he repeatedly walked the small outer courtyard, his eyes not seeing the beautiful gardens in the first bloom of spring.

With a sudden keen sting, Draco remembered what it was to be young and desperately in love, hopeful and despairing all at the same time. He felt a pang of guilt and sadness, almost comforting in its familiarity, and did his best to hide it from his son, a habit also familiar after many long years.

“Scorpius,” he called to him, quietly. “It’s time.”

When Scorpius raised his eyes to meet his fathers’, the jittery nervousness of overflowing emotions was like a bright light in their chocolate-colored depths. His eyes were just like his mother’s, or at least how Draco remembered them to be, before they’d lost things like _Passion_ , _Excitement_ , _Affection_.

Quickly, he shut off the list before the whole thing could recite through his mind. It did that often enough, no matter how much he tried to forget. Today it was the very last thing he should be thinking about.

“Come, son,” he said, trying and failing to keep the compassion out of his voice.

They entered the church together. Guests were still milling around slowly taking their seats. Draco said dutiful greetings with a fake smile as he made his way to the front of the church where his wife waited. Normally he wouldn’t have left her for even a moment in a public gathering like this one. The Wizarding World still believed her to simply be a reclusive heroine, bent on her privacy, and it was rare that he took her to any large events, knowing she wouldn’t enjoy any of them. _Joy_ , _Happiness_.

But he knew that if there were a single shred of Hermione left inside the shell that he’d lived with for more than 25 years, she would want to be present on this occasion. So he’d made sure she was fitted with appropriate robes, he’d carefully picked out the jewelry that he thought she would want, and had one of the house elves fix her hair and apply tasteful makeup glamours. And while he went to find his son, he’d left her in the care of her two best friends.

Despite the importance of the occasion, and the many concerns no doubt pressing on them, he knew they would not allow her to be accosted by the press or even well meaning friends. As he and Scorpius approached, Ron & Harry stood up, giving Hermione matching kisses on the cheek that she smiled serenely at. _Contentment_. Always so content.

That smile, her only one, Draco had hated with a passion for many years. But the hate had long since faded into a sort of resignation. She wasn’t unhappy, at least. Which was certainly more than he could say for himself. Some days, like today, as he seated himself next to her and gently took her hand, he found himself jealous of that contentment. He wished he could have just a tiny bit for himself. So he could give it to his son.

He looked at Scorpius who was staring at the closed doors at the back of the church, his heart in his eyes in a very un-Malfoy-like way. Fortunately, no one was looking at him, as everyone was similarly focused on looking backwards. No one except Harry Potter, whose mask-like expression didn’t fool Draco one bit. For a moment he locked eyes with his childhood rival, who was now, arguably, his best and only friend—the man who had patiently helped support Draco through 25 years of a hopeless marriage. There were so many days he’d envied Hermione those empty eyes, that head empty of thoughts, and Harry would remind him of how much his son and daughter needed him, and help him struggle back against the waves of dark feeling that knocked him around.

Today, the look in Harry’s eyes was one of sorrow. They’d never discussed it, but it was impossible that Harry didn’t know. Draco felt shame wash over him, and he grasped Hermione’s hand a little tighter, uselessly searching for comfort that she could never give. Arthur had told him long ago that part of being a father was sometimes feeling like an awful failure. He’d told Draco that no matter how true it felt at the time, it was never accurate.

He wished Arthur were still alive to remind him that he wasn’t a failure. But Arthur had succumbed to a heart problem a couple of winters ago. Molly sat alone in the front row of chairs, despite all the children and grandchildren that surrounded her, and Draco felt a moment of sympathy for her loneliness.

The music started ringing out, the heavy doors revealing young Rose, resplendent in a lovely silvery white gown. Ron escorted his oldest daughter, and her smile as she looked up the aisle to the man waiting at the end of it, was so bright it lit the entire dark church. Her lovely red hair—Weasley hair—cascaded down her back in soft waves, the white ribbon around her locks no doubt her mother’s doing, as Lavender Weasley could never resist a ribbon.

She was beautiful. All the guests were murmuring the same sentiment, and lights flashed as a hundred cameras took pictures at the same time.

He stood, and raised Hermione up with him, directing her attention to the redheads making their way towards them. He wished he could imagine her smiling fondly at the two of them, but he knew better.

Draco chanced a glance at Scorpius’ face, and then he could not look away. He felt, rather than heard, his son’s sigh, and for a moment he fancied he also felt his son’s heart swelling so full of emotion the only possible outcome was that it would burst, painfully.

Draco was no stranger to heartache. He rather thought his heart had broken so many times, it wasn’t possible for it to break further. Yet, watching his son as the love of his young life passed within 12 inches of him to take her place beside the beaming Frank Longbottom II, Neville and Hannah’s oldest boy, Draco realized that everything he’d felt paled in comparison to the shattering sensation of knowing his son would need to learn the same lessons he had of living without the one you loved most.

As they took their seats again, Scorpius’ already pale face a deathly white, Draco chanted in his head. _Let go_. _Let go, let go, let go_. _While you can_.

Malfoys were terribly unlucky in love. It used to be they could have whatever they wanted based on their family’s position and their money. But there were things money could not buy. And in a post-Voldemort world, their standing in society no longer had the value it once did. Two generations of Malfoy men were destroyed by this learning curve. He could only hope that a third generation would fare better. He fervently wished that after today, his son could begin to move on, and not spend decades pining over a woman he couldn’t have.

He didn’t hear any of the ceremony, and he squeezed Hermione’s hand so tightly it started to spasm. She never complained, of course. Barely even noticed. If anyone had been watching, they would have only seen that small smile as she watched the beloved daughter of one of her best friends get married, the first of the Golden Trio’s children to do so, to the son of another famous war hero.

When he couldn’t bear to watch Scorpius, whose gaze was still riveted painfully on the bride, he turned briefly to look at his daughter. She wasn’t watching the couple at the altar; her eyes were on the groomsmen.

One by one, Draco went down the line, finally stopping on young Albus Potter. A slight chill went through him, as he realized his baby girl had tender feelings for the quietest Potter. He’d been so absorbed with Scorpius’ more dramatic unrequited love, he hadn’t paid close enough attention to where his daughter might be looking.

He felt a moment of panic, but he quickly brushed it aside. Albus Potter was raised in a family that understood love, he wouldn’t make the colossal mistakes that Draco and Scorpius had. Callisto was her mother’s daughter more than she would ever know. Her heart was big, her ability to love was innate—something she had certainly never inherited or learned from her Malfoy side. There was no reason Draco should have to worry that her affection would spell disaster for herself. Of everyone, Draco was sure his daughter had the very best chance of finding love, of _being_ loved.

He felt that foreign flutter again in his crippled heart. It was hope. Funny how resilient the heart was that it continually responded to the slightest positivity, even when injured beyond repair.

As the audience cheered, and Scorpius woodenly forced himself to clap, Frankie kissed Rose’s smiling face. And Albus Potter’s eyes went right over everyone’s heads to share a quiet smile with an attractive young girl with straight black hair, sitting by herself along the edge of the packed hall. Waiting for him, no doubt.

And the smile on Callisto’s face faltered a tiny bit before she turned back to the new Mr & Mrs Longbottom, her clapping never missing a beat.

Draco squeezed Hermione’s hand again, as if the action could somehow relieve the sensation of his breath being snatched raggedly from his lungs.

Hermione, as usual, had no response…just the same smile and those same, vacant eyes.

* * *

****

**_Fifty Years Later_ **

As Hermione's breathing got shallower, Draco looked at her beloved hair, now completely white with age, but still as curly as ever. He hoped that she would find peace in the next life, more than she'd had in this one. She deserved that. He wanted it for her. For the first time, since it was so near the end, he allowed himself to consider placing a kiss on her mouth. It had seemed so unfair to do it before, a travesty to real life. But as his lips touched hers in a gentle, chaste kiss and he said his goodbyes, her eyes suddenly fluttered open again.

He stared into amber that was more familiar to him than his own face in the mirror. And yet it was different.

"Wh-who?" she asked, her voice rasping in a throat that hadn’t spoken any words in months.

Draco was taken aback, shocked. She hadn’t asked a question that hadn’t been demanded of her in nearly 75 years. Fortunately, it was the easiest of all the questions to answer.

“It’s Draco,” he said, feeling the strangest of emotions swelling in the vicinity of his long-numb heart.

“Malfoy?” she gasped. “So old.”

“It’s—been a long time,” he said, hesitantly, still having trouble believing he wasn’t hallucinating.

“The end, then?” She looked up at him, and for a moment he thought he saw a lifetime of memories flashing by in her eyes. He saw himself as a young, petulant child, as an angry adult, as a loving father, as a broken man.

“Yes, Granger,” he nodded, slipping back into the old habit.

“Thank….Merlin…” she said, with considerable effort, before the wheeze in her throat turned into a death rattle, and then it stopped entirely. Her sightless eyes stared up at the ceiling.

“Granger?” Draco asked, suddenly feeling very cold, as if all the warmth in the room had vanished. “Granger? Hermione!”

It was like losing her all over again. How many times would he lose her? Was this really how it would end? He didn’t think he could breathe. He didn’t think he had this many feelings left in him. He’d thought he’d wanted just a moment, but maybe that was the worst thing he could have had. A single moment, at the wrong time, the wrong way, everything was just wrong.

“It was the kiss,” came Callisto’s voice from the corner of the room, filled with wonder. Much older now, her own hair white with age, she’d never stopped being a romantic, despite having spent her life alone. “It was true love’s kiss.”

“It was the spell!” Scorpius retorted, his voice cynical, floating over his sister’s.  He had never regained his sense of romance, despite marrying three times and having seven children. “It was just the end of the spell.”

After all these years, Draco didn’t know which explanation was worse.

**Author's Note:**

> _Thank you so much to my Beta-reader brandinm05 who worked tirelessly on this story to bring it under the original competition word count of 7000 words, as well as to develop it into the full story it is now._
> 
> Also, it’s “draft” not “draught” because it’s like an outline written on paper, not the potion. Like a rough draft? Get it? It’s a play on words. It’s Hermione’s list. It’s also the name of the spell that she invented. Please tell me someone got that...
> 
> S&R Movement: CONSTRUCTIVE REVIEWS WELCOME (CRW)


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